


Prumano Week 2015

by Curreeus



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curreeus/pseuds/Curreeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fills for the prompts for Prumano week 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Fantasy AU

**Author's Note:**

> Everything at Uni started getting super hectic just when this challenge started, I'm so mad!   
> I'm still going to try my best to finish up the prompts I planned to fill anyway. They'll all probably be a few days late though,  
> I'm not renowned for my speed at writing... I guess we'll see how I go. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for the "Fantasy AU" prompt. It ended up way too long and I did way too much worldbuilding that makes me want to stretch it out into a longer fic, but oh well. Onto day 2.  
> ("Fuga" means "escape" in Italian and Spanish, I believe - however I took it from the word "fugue", which means "flight" in its Latin root. I thought it fit and liked it better than everything else I came up with.)

Lovino sighed, pausing in his sweeping to lean on the broom and survey the hayloft, which he’d just spent an hour sweeping. The floor of the loft was clean and tidy, all the loose straw and grit had been collected into a pile at the back wall, and the pitchfork lay beside it, ready for use the next day.

Thank god.

His stomach grumbled – now that he’d finally finished all his damn work, he was very _very_ ready for the food he could smell coming from the house, where Nonno was cooking while he and Feliciano finished up the chores.

Feliciano was collecting the eggs and giving the animals their evening meal – he got the “easy” job because the animals seemed to love him much more than Lovino or Nonno – and Lovino could hear the gate creaking, meaning that Feliciano had finished with the cows and pigs and was heading into the henhouse.

Lovino rolled his stiff shoulders, placing the broom against the wall and walking to the window of the hayloft, looking out across the countryside at dusk. Only a few lights were illuminated; the windows of their few and distant neighbours. The only sounds were that of the wind through grass and trees and the occasional low of a cow.

It was picturesque and pastoral and _perfect._

And Lovino hated it.

He hated the cows and the neighbours and the occasional lights in the quiet dusk, he hated his chores and the way that each day would dawn and end the same as though nothing had changed, and he hated the way his grandfather smiled at him and told him he’d grow up to be _just like him._

Lovino loved his grandfather, he did, but he didn’t want to grow up to be a smiley old farmer who traded eggs, butter, and milk on Sunday morning down at market and considered that the adventure of the week.

He wanted to see the cities he’d heard about in the stories Nonno would tell him and Feliciano; he wanted to see kings and princesses and… and maybe princes too, not that he’d tell anyone. He wanted to see buildings as tall as the sky and horses that were meant for riding so fast you could feel the wind tearing through your hair – not that he’d ride them, he didn’t have the nerve, but he wanted to see someone else do it. He wanted to see the sea, which he’d only heard about in stories, and he wanted to see the undines that lived therein and traded fish to the sailors for gold pieces that they’d add to their underwater hoards. He wanted to see the dragons that lived in the mountains and made them rumble and shake and smoke and explode, sometimes.

And most of all, he wanted to see –

Lovino frowned.

What on earth was that noise?

A strange flapping sound, like a bird, except larger and… getting closer?

Before Lovino really had time to process it there was an almighty crash, in which the roof of the hayloft exploded and Lovino’s meticulously swept pile of hay was once again scattered to all four corners of the barn.

Lovino let out a yelp and threw up his hands in front of his face to protect his eyes from the plume of dust that arose from the hay, his heart pounding and breath sticking in his throat as he heard movement in the loft, meaning that something was now definitely in there with him.

He swallowed, terrified to lower his arms and see what exactly had made a dramatic entry through the roof. But then he imagined the trouble he’d get into if the hayloft was destroyed by an errant squirrel, like last time, and he slowly lowered his arms and opened his eyes – and saw perhaps the last thing he was prepared for.

On the remains of his pile of hay there sprawled a young man with his back to Lovino, perhaps only one or two years older than Lovino himself. His skin was pale, denoting him as a foreigner from the north, and to match his skin there was a mop of shockingly white hair crowning his head. He wore a peasants clothing; bare feet with a rough-hewn shirt and trousers, much like Lovino’s except in slightly worse repair.

However, none of this would have been truly worrying if it weren’t for the enormous pair of pure white wings that smoothly extended from his back.

Lovino exhaled a shaky breath, his eyes wide.

Many of the feathers were as wide as Lovino’s hand and long as his arm, and they smoothly shuffled and shook when the wings twitched – though for the most part they lay drooped along the floor of the hayloft as though exhausted, the span of them so wide that the very tips brushed either wall of the small structure.

He watched in awe as the wings shifted, reminiscent of an eagle, feeling a strange sense of sadness as the pure white feathers collected dust from the floor and dirtied themselves.

Then, his brain kicked back into gear, and he realised exactly who – or rather, what – the man was.

“Fuga…” he whispered, breath barely even there, unsure whether he was awestruck or horrified.

The Fuga were one of the last mysteries of the world, remaining mysterious even when the undines had been dissected and pickled in jars and the dragons’ bones had been sold for use in medicine. The appearance of Fuga was so rare and strange that humans had yet to realise what to make of them, and they still inspired awe and wonder whenever people heard about them.

The ancient texts and stories told of a world where these winged beings had ruled the sky and humans had ruled the earth, wings and people of every colour and shape and size decorating the world with their beauty.

But that had been centuries ago. Things had changed.

Fuga had not been a race unto their own like undines were – instead, every so often for an unexplained reason a human child would be born with wings and a keen magical ability, and the Fuga would adopt them into their midst.

Eons ago having a Fuga born into a family had been seen as a blessing from the Gods themselves; an angel sent down to protect and honour the family.

But the Fuga became prideful and scornful of humans, and after that they were persecuted and eventually hunted down for sport and so their wings could be made into trophies. Fewer and fewer Fuga were born, until eventually none were born at all.

For centuries, people thought they were extinct.

But apparently, unless Lovino was hallucinating, people had been very, very wrong.

Slowly, he swallowed, finally coming back to his senses and eyeing the pitchfork on the floor, tipped over after the “explosion”.

Before the Fuga had a chance to orient himself and stand up, Lovino knelt down and gripped the pitchfork, standing up and brandishing it out in from of himself before he made a noise.

“O-oi, what the fuck do you think you’re d-doing?”

At the sound of a voice the man on the floor froze, drooping wings drawing in close to his body, almost protective, and spinning around, turning and standing in one smooth movement, wings extending to their full span and filling the room with white feathers as he glared at Lovino.

Lovino cowered, the prongs of the pitchfork lowering as he met the man’s gaze.

A very red, very terrifying gaze, set in a face that would be somewhat handsome if it weren’t set in a snarl.

Lovino’s throat went completely dry, and slowly, he started to back away, hoping to escape the hayloft before he was torn limb from limb.

The stories hadn’t said that Fuga were dangerous, but Lovino wasn’t waiting around to find out for sure.

He turned and ran for the ladder, only for there to be a _whoosh_ from behind him – then a heavy weight landed on his back, pushing him facefirst down onto the floor.

A rough voice snarled in his ear, low and dangerous.

“You’re not leaving yet.”

Lovino whimpered as a knee pressed into his back, and he stuttered out a reply.

“I-I’m sorry, shit, please don’t fucking kill me…”

The knee pressed harder.

“I won’t kill you if you return the favour… For all I know you’re going to get your father, or whoever else is here, to help lock me up and sell me back to the king, peasants like you always need the coin…”

“No, I wouldn’t! I promise, I swear on my life I wouldn’t, goddammit!”

Lovino grunted as an arm joined the knee on his back, splaying across his shoulder blades as the Fuga took a breath to continue.

Then, he paused.

There was a moment where they were suspended in silence, Lovino prostrate on the floor and the Fuga with a knee in his back and a forearm pressing across his shoulder-blades.

The Fuga relented slightly, and there was a hand pressing gently at either of Lovino’s shoulder-blades, much to Lovino’s confusion. Then, he felt lips brush his ear.

He shuddered, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Do you swear it on the Winged One, creator of all those of the sky and protector of the flightless?”

Lovino froze. He had no idea what that meant – but at the same time, he knew exactly what to say, and he felt his mouth move almost against his permission, mouthing words he’d never said or even heard before.

“I swear my life on Him, may he strike me down and bind me to the earth forevermore.”

The words seemed to echo through the room, reaching Lovino’s ears as a strange, strangled version of his own voice; making even less sense now that they’d left his mouth.

He’d never heard them in his life, and yet, somehow, they seemed like the right thing to say.

Slowly, the Fuga’s knee lifted from his back, and there were firm hands on his shoulders, turning him over and holding him down as the Fuga knelt over him and stared at him from only an arm’s length away, wings still fanned out defensively and creating a strange cocoon around them both.

The Fuga was staring at him with a mix of horror and astonishment, his crimson eyes wide, his mouth agape and voice soft and almost frightened.

“How…?”

There was a moment in which they just stared at each other, each seeming just as unsettled by the other.

Then, the moment was shattered by another voice.

Lovino’s Nonno.

“Lovino, what was that noise? Do you need help?”

With a start, Lovino looked to the window, opening his mouth to yell back a reply to his grandfather – asking to come help, there was a _goddamn **Fuga**_ in the hayloft – but then he looked back to the Fuga and met that gaze again.

The snarl and danger of before was gone, and now, the Fuga just looked terrified. In fact, he looked as terrified as Lovino was the longer he looked, and it gave Lovino pause.

He should be calling his grandfather and his brother to come help, but… he found that he didn’t want them to.

As scared as he was, he was also dying to know this man’s story; to feel trusted. He had fallen into _Lovino’s_ newly swept hayloft, therefore it was _his_ Fuga, right? It was _his_ secret, for once… maybe he should keep it.

The Fuga slowly shook his head, eyes wide.

_Please,_ his eyes seemed to say, and Lovino felt something give.

Slowly he took a breath and opened his mouth again, and this time he gave a reply.

“It’s nothing Nonno, Feliciano’s stupid cat just knocked over a bucket again, I’ll need to take a few minutes to clear it up.”

Silence. Both Lovino and the Fuga sat there with bated breath, and then Nonno replied.

“Alright. Don’t be long, your dinner will get cold!”

Lovino sighed in relief, exhaling one final reply.

“I’ll take as long as I take, dammit! Feliciano owes me!”

There was the sound of a window closing, and then there was silence in the hayloft.

The Fuga just stared at Lovino with wide eyes, as though he couldn’t believe that Lovino was real, and Lovino wriggled uncomfortably.

“Do you mind getting off me now?”

The Fuga startled into action, pulling himself back off Lovino and kneeling next to him, still fixing him with that gaze. Lovino scowled at him as he sat up, brushing hay off himself.

“What are you staring at? You’re the weird guy with wings.”

The wings themselves twitched before folding in again, as though they were offended. The Fuga just cocked his head in a sharp movement, reminiscent of a bird, before he smirked just slightly, a tentative action that was crooked and took up one side of his face more than the other. The thought arose out of nowhere that it was cute, and Lovino squashed it quickly.

Then, the Fuga spoke.

“I prefer Gilbert, actually.”

Lovino raised an eyebrow.

“Gilbert? That’s your name?”

The Fuga nodded once sharply, and Lovino smirked.

“That’s as stupid a name as I ever heard, especially for a Fuga.”

The Fuga, or “Gilbert”, frowned, wings twitching, and Lovino had to resist the urge to lean forward and touch the soft looking feathers.

“Excuse you, my name is awesome.”

Lovino scoffed, looking away from the wings.

“If it’s anything like your landing skills, then yeah, it’s fantastic.”

Gilbert pouted petulantly.

“I’m _sorry_ about the roof, but it was in the way. I had to get in somehow.”

Lovino’s face fell and he looked up, noticing the human-sized hole in the thatch and cringing, wondering how he’d forgotten about that and how he was going to explain that one to Nonno.

When he turned back to Gilbert, the Fuga had imperiously folded out a wing and was brushing dirt from it much like a human would pluck stray threads from their sleeves.

Lovino opened his mouth to say something – to ask why he was here, or why he’d been out flying in the near dusk, or where he was from, _anything…_

But then, his Nonno’s voice echoed out from the house once again, and Lovino jumped.

“Lovino! If you don’t hurry up your brother will leave none for you!”

Then the window was slammed shut again, and Lovino scrambled to his feet from sheer reflex before he looked down at Gilbert, who looked up expectantly.

As if on cue, there was a loud growl of a stomach, and Gilbert looked down in surprise, as if such a thing wasn’t possible.

Lovino just sighed.

“Looks like I have to go get us both some dinner.”

Turning, he once again moved to the ladder of the hayloft, sighing with relief when Gilbert made no move to stop him.

Gilbert just shrugged, following him to the edge of the hayloft and leaning over to watch his descent, toes brushing the edge as though it wasn’t at least a twelve foot drop.

“You’ll be back though, right?”

Lovino looked up, frowning, only to find those eyes concentrated solely on him and head slightly tilted.

He swallowed.

“I said I would, didn’t I? Hell, you didn’t trust me a moment ago and now you don’t want me to leave, what is it with you?”

Gilbert smiled that crooked grin again, his wings slowly folding themselves up onto his back.

“I think you’re just a little bit awesome. Only a little. And you’re bringing me dinner.”

Lovino rolled his eyes, and Gilbert’s grin just grew wider, though he said nothing and just tracked Lovino’s movement with his eyes.

Finally Lovino reached the bottom of the ladder, walking to the barn doors and opening one slowly, half stepping through it before he paused. He looked back at Gilbert, who still stood at the edge of the hayloft with no fear of falling, still looking curiously at Lovino as though he was an interesting puzzle. Lovino bit his lip worriedly.

“Wait here, ok?”

Gilbert just nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, and sat at the edge of the hayloft, legs dangling, smiling idyllically down at him.

“Hurry back, Lovino.”

Lovino rolled his eyes at the singsong tone and closed the door.

Once outside he collapsed against it and exhaled a giant sigh, pressing his hands to his face.

He felt like his entire life had just changed completely in one fell swoop, and he’d had absolutely no say in the matter.

He wasn’t sure whether he was excited or terrified.


	2. Day 3: Historical Event

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Teutonic Knights make a pilgrimage to Rome, and Lovino makes an unlikely friend.

Gilbert still remembered the golden spires of Jerusalem.

He remembered the heat and adrenaline of battle, of fighting to get closer and closer to the Holy Land and the ecstasy when they made headway. He remembered the breathless smiles on his people’s faces and their hearts beating fast when they charged into battle; beating as one. He remembered the smell of sweat and blood in the hot sun beating down on him like a thick cloud as he fought onwards, body too young for the mind that lay inside it and his people not understanding, trying to keep him safe; trying to keep the boy who couldn’t die away from the battle, and trying to decide whether his blood-red eyes and white hair made him an angel or a demon.

But war was what he was created for, and so it was war he would create – he remembered haunting every battlefield like a ghost, seeing the fear in the enemy’s faces when a boy no older than twelve dove at them with battle-crazed eyes and sword outstretched.

And likewise, he remembered failing.

He remembered being defeated in the Holy Land, him and his people driven away like mange-ridden dogs, tails between their legs, keenly feeling the frustration of having been so close and now so far.

He remembered how far the walk home was.

It wasn’t _his_ home – his home was with his people, wherever they were, and borders and land meant nothing to him if he couldn’t hear their thoughts or feel their hearts nearby.

But it was _their_ home, which meant it was his too, and so they walked.

They crossed mountains and streams and deserts and plains and yet they didn’t reach it, and he could feel the discouragement that flowed freely among them.

But then he heard talk of a new place. Somewhere that wasn’t “home” nor the Holy Land, but somewhere new, along with the word “pilgrimage”.

He’d heard of it before – it had been one of the places he’d been championing; a place that lived and breathed the religion that was the cause for his existence. But apart from using it as a battle cry he hadn’t heard much detail about it.

Now when his people talked about it they spoke with mists in their eyes, speaking of basilicas and cathedrals and churches with towers as tall as the sky, and beautiful songs that praised God in angelic harmony and the boss of it all, the Pope, who would ordain them and recognise them and their work on behalf of God himself.

Gilbert wasn’t sure what all that meant, but he recognised the pride in their eyes when they said that and looked at him, and he thought that this Rome place sounded very nice indeed.

**

Lovino remembered not knowing what to make of the Teutonic Knights.

Rome had thousands of pilgrims, everyone yearning for a blessing from the Pope or to see his city in all its glory – or at least they wanted to see _Nonno Rome’s_ city it all its glory.

No-one ever really wanted to see him except the brothers and sisters of God that worked in the Vatican, urging him to meet this person and that person and make a favourable impression so that they could draw in more money.

He honestly didn’t care.

Many of his people outside of the Vatican city were hungry and poor, what did he care for the funds of the church? And yet it was a safe place for him, and its walls protected him and his people so long as they were devout, and so he stayed.

And then of course pilgrims came, wearing tunics that were old and dirty, showing signs of being worn for weeks of travel.

They arrived one day out of nowhere, marching down the streets and terrorising the people with their weapons that showed signs of heavy use hanging at their sides, on horses that looked lean and weary but as well cared for as they could be on the road.

And at their head, a boy with bright red eyes and white hair, with a grin that spelt trouble.

He was the Teutonic Knights, they whispered, and he was brave and good – but all Lovino could see was the blood-red eyes and the shockingly pale hair; the worn tunic and the weapon that hung at his right side, betraying a preference for leading with the left hand; all he could see was a boy no older than twelve who had done things most grown men could never bring themselves to.

And he didn’t know what to think.

“He’s your guest now, make him feel welcome” the Pope had whispered to him, and then they had put them both in a room together with the expectation that they would good allies when they came out.

Lovino promised no such thing.

But then the boy had knelt to him, calling him “Rome” and telling him that he was everything that he had expected; that he was “awesome”.

It was a word that Lovino suspected he knew from the Bible, but he was flattered all the same. Normally he was just called lazy and unintelligent, because he was slow to learn to read.

Then the boy had pulled a rock from his pouch and offered it to him, his “spoils from the Holy Land.” It was a piece of the wall at Acre, where his “awesome knights” had made a great victory, and it was worn smooth from constantly rubbing against something. Lovino could tell it was important to the boy, and now he was offering it to him; offering him a piece of the mystical Holy Land that would be his and his alone.

The Vatican had gotten spoils – gold and other Important Things that he wasn’t allowed to see.

But now, he was being given his own little piece of it to keep and to treasure.

How could he resist?

He wasn’t sure if the Pope would like him having made friends instead of an alliance. But being locked away in the Vatican was a lonely existence, and he almost never got to see Feliciano, who was always up North.

He would like a friend.

So he took the boy’s hand when he offered it, held it tight, and pulled him along through corridors and through rooms with lofty painted ceilings, watching wonder track its way across the boy’s features when he heard the choirs sing the Miserere and seeing that same wonder directed at him when the boy smiled at him.

“Awesome,” he whispered. Lovino felt his heart skip along a little faster, and he decided quietly that maybe, just maybe, this Teutonic Knights wasn’t too bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this counts as good judgement? This is a little scene I've had in the back of my mind for a while, and it seems like it'd be quite historically likely.   
> This takes place in about 1211, when the Teutonic Knights moved away from the Holy Wars and took up residence in eastern Europe (or so Google tells me). There's a lot in here that probably isn't accurate (especially concerning the Holy Wars, which is why I tried to be vague) but I think it works ok as a little lone segment.  
> ALSO: in 1211 quite a lot of European life still revolved around the church (the safe havens from the barbarians), so Lovino being quite heavily religious isn't unlikely. Also, Miserere mei, Deus by Allegri was composed in about 1630 and is only really sung on special occasions like Easter... but please permit me this, I couldn't think of another piece I'd like to reference more.


	3. Day 5: First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Lovino was fire then Gilbert was gasoline, and together it was almost impossible for them to be anything else BUT explosive – so it was no wonder that their first kiss happened the way it did.

If there was one word Lovino would pick to describe Gilbert and himself together, it would be explosive.

Because, really, there was no other word for them.

If Lovino was fire then Gilbert was gasoline, and together it was almost impossible for them to be anything else BUT explosive – so it was no wonder that their first kiss happened the way it did.

Looking back, Lovino wasn’t sure who instigated it.

He also wasn’t sure what they had even been fighting about, only that it had ended with them toe to toe and shouting into each other’s faces.

It might have been him, with face heated and blood rushing in his ears, a frustration bubbling just under his skin that wasn’t being solved by shouting.

It might have been Gilbert, fists in Lovino’s shirt and eyes flickering down to Lovino’s lips while he yelled.

It might have been Lovino, whose train of thought had narrowed down to little more than the fact that Gilbert had pushed him up against the wall and was staring at him from the chasm of only two or three inches away.

It might have been Gilbert, who also appeared to have trouble thinking straight when Lovino raised his head and offered his neck, gaze never breaking, only narrowing and begging him to “just fucking try it, bastard”.

But in the end it didn’t matter, because one moment they were shouting about some pointless problem and the next they’d kissed, just a quick press of lips that neither one of them had expected to actually happen, judging by the way Lovino’s heart pounded against his ribs as Gilbert pulled away, eyes wide and wondering if he’d just crossed some line.

But then Lovino just raised his eyebrows in a silent question for consent and Gilbert just swallowed and blinked, so Lovino pulled him back in with a hand behind his head, licking into his mouth and claiming a second kiss.

All of a sudden whatever problem they’d had was solved, and bodies pressed closer and hips collided and hands began to wander and it was _perfect,_ and Lovino relished the little whimper he got from Gilbert when he bit down gently on his bottom lip, feeling his toes curl with satisfaction when Gilbert’s hands strayed into his hair and found that one spot that made him melt.

The third kiss was much the same – Lovino, straying from Gilbert’s mouth and onto his neck, discovered that he really, _really_ liked the sounds Gilbert made when he nipped at the patch of skin just under his ear, and it was worth the stretch up on his toes to reach it.

But then Gilbert pulled his head up, and then Lovino’s hands gripped and tugged Gilbert’s hair and Gilbert’s hands pulled Lovino’s shirt and trying to get him closer, mouths open and panting and asking for more and giving more, passing the fire back and forth between them until they both felt almost drunk from the contact but were unable to stop.

It took a while, but slowly the fire faded, until they were left trading lazy little nibbles and presses of lips, smiling almost too much to make it work.

Gilbert pulled back, pressing his forehead to Lovino’s and murmuring quietly.

“What were we even fighting about?”

Lovino smiled, eyes closed.

“You know, I don’t really care anymore.”

Gilbert moved, and Lovino felt him press another gentle kiss to his lips.

“Does that mean I win?”

Lovino pushed Gilbert’s forehead up and away with his own, snorting indignantly.

“Pfft, like it ever would.”

There was a tiny silence, so Lovino opened his eyes to see Gilbert beatifically smiling down at him like he was the only thing that mattered – so gently, Lovino cupped Gilbert’s jaw and kissed him again, slow and sweet.

For once, there was no fire, no explosion; just a gentle affection that made Lovino warm from head to toe – and he thought quietly that while fire was good, he liked the softly glowing embers left behind even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to keep it under a thousand words, this is new  
> Also, it's half an hour until Thursday ends in my timezone and it's 6am pacific standard time, apparently, which means that this one is ON TIME  
> I am excite  
> Now, ONWARDS


End file.
